


A Betting Man

by SinnamonSpider



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Sam is 14, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:09:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27137092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinnamonSpider/pseuds/SinnamonSpider
Summary: Sam and Dean are playing a game.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 4
Kudos: 102





	A Betting Man

**Author's Note:**

> Whew, it's been a while! You'd think with the state of the world that I'd have lots of time to write. And you'd be right, but apparently it hasn't resulted in much so far.
> 
> Just this! I didn't set out to write 5.5k of Weecest jerking off, but here we are. Better than nothing!
> 
> Standard disclaimers apply. Love a bit of feedback.

Sam and Dean are playing a game.

Sam tells himself he doesn’t remember how it started, but that’s not the truth. He knows exactly how it happened - how and when and where. 

Why is another story, but so far, no one has asked. 

It starts with porn, because of course it does. It starts when he’s fourteen and Dean’s turning nineteen in a month, with another Christmas without Dad, in a motel with a questionable heater and a bucket of the Colonel’s finest in lieu of a turkey, because that’s what they do: they pay lip service to holidays in a way that turns Sam’s stomach more each year.

They’re lazy and sleepy now, after their greasy dinner, spread out on their respective beds in their boxers, and Dean reaches languidly for the remote. Sam holds it out of his reach. “What? We’re watching this.”

‘This’ is the Alastair Sims _A Christmas Carol_ , a fucking classic, but Dean isn’t interested in Dickens unless it’s got the Muppets (which is also a classic, Sam isn’t afraid to admit, but there are other versions too, Dean). “Man, Frosty is on.” 

“Are you four, Dean?” Sam demands. He shoves the remote under the pillows of the bed he’s sprawled on. That likely won’t help much, but he’s banking on Dean being too full of chicken to do much beyond whine. 

He’s wrong, though - apparently Frosty is enough to motivate Dean despite a full stomach, because he heaves himself off his bed and grabs Sam by the ankles, yanking him down the slippery bedspread. “Driver picks the Christmas movies,” he says cheerily, like it’s not the dumbest fucking thing to ever come out of his mouth, and reaches toward the pillow, but Sam’s kept his hand on the remote and sweeps it away. Dean swats at his hand and the remote goes wild, bouncing off the bed and onto the floor. 

There’s a pause and Sam knows Dean is doing the same thing he is: calculating if getting his way is worth a post-feast wrestling match. They come to the same conclusion, clearly, because they both hurl themselves after the lost remote. 

Sam lands on top of it, but it doesn’t do him much good because Dean lands on top of _him_ , winding him. “Fucking lardass,” he wheezes as the remote digs in under his ribs.

“Skinny bitch,” Dean retorts, wriggling so all his pointiest bits are boring down into Sam. He shifts and Sam curls under him, trying to dislodge him. 

The moaning catches both of their attention, two heads craning to look at the TV because that doesn’t sound like the ghost of Jacob Marley. 

Scrooge is gone from the screen, replaced by a man wearing elf shoes and not much else pumping away behind a woman wearing a Santa hat.

“Well, Merry Christmas!” Dean exclaims, delighted. 

Sam’s lungs must be as flat as pancakes by now, but he manages to croak out anyways. “It’s just the preview from the pay channel, stupid, don’t get excited.” 

“Get up, don’t change the channel,” Dean says, and gets off Sam with more care than Sam thinks necessary, since it’s all just to preserve the porn and not Sam’s broken body. Dean kicks him lightly. “Get up!”

“You broke all my bones, William Taft!” 

“Not a good insult if you gotta explain it, Sammy.” Dean hauls him to his feet, still watching the elf dude service Mrs Claus.

“Twenty-seventh president. So fat they had to build a special bathtub in the White House.”

Dean laughs at that, eyes flicking to Sam for just a second, and Sam preens just a bit. Not a good insult, his (entirely flattened) ass. 

“I don’t think this is the preview, dude,” Dean observes, as the scene changes. Now Mrs Claus is cowgirl riding - reindeer riding? - the elf on a candy-striped rug. “This looks like the real deal.” He tilts his head, considering. “Guess this is payback for Santa using ‘em as slave labour to make toys.”

Sam is less enamoured. “Dad will flip when he sees this charge on the card.” 

Dean flaps an unconcerned hand as he settles back onto his bed. “What charge? We didn’t enter a credit card number or anything. And it’s a fake card anyways, not like he’s actually gonna pay for anything.” He reaches out and yanks at Sam’s hand. “C’mon, you’re blocking the view.” 

“Am not,” Sam mutters, but he sinks onto his bed regardless, watching Mrs Claus’ fake tits stay completely still while she bounces on the elf’s dick. “Why pay for boobs if they’re not even gonna look real?”

“Like you know what real boobs look like,” Dean scoffs. He’s leaning back against the headboard now, legs spread wide. “Will you relax, please? Look like you’re about to pop a blood vessel.” 

Sam sighs heavily, flopping down to mirror Dean’s position, although he keeps his knees drawn up. “Know boobs aren’t supposed to look like that.” 

“You’re not wrong,” Dean concedes, “but consider this: who fucking cares?”

The scene changes again, elf and Mrs Claus now in missionary. Music starts up and Sam can’t believe his ears. 

“ _Have a holly, jolly Christmas, it’s the best time of the year…_ ”

They both burst out laughing. “It sure is,” Dean agrees brightly. 

“Judging by elf-boy’s face, it looks like there’s gonna be snow all right,” Sam quips, and heat blooms in the pit of his stomach as Dean cackles again. 

“He’s gonna blow his load in her cup of cheer,” Dean giggles, and Sam whoops along with him, cheeks hurting from grinning. On screen, the holly jolly couple finishes and Sam and Dean cheer as they fade from view. 

“That was awful,” Sam says, reaching down to pick up the remote.

“I think you mean genius,” Dean corrects. “Don’t change it!” He snatches the remote from Sam, placing it carefully on his far side. 

Sam rolls his eyes. “I can’t take another Christmas porno, Dean.” 

“Scrooge.”

Something else is starting up now, but it looks less themed. Just another weirdly muscled guy and big-tittied woman in cheap looking lingerie. She’s kneeling between the guy’s spread knees, looking up at the camera suggestively.

“Here, this looks more traditional,” Dean says. “Didn’t realize you were a porn purist.” 

“That’s not a thing, idiot.” 

The woman goes to work on the guy’s massive dick and they fall into silence; nothing to joke about anymore. 

Sam shifts awkwardly on the mattress. Watching dumb Christmas-themed porn with your brother is one thing, but this is more serious - as serious as soft-core can get - and he’s starting to feel weird, amongst other things. 

He dares a quick glance at Dean, who’s sunk lower into the pillows, his lips parted just slightly like he needs the extra oxygen. That sends a thrill over Sam and he jerks his eyes away, rolling onto his side to hide the boner that’s starting to tent his boxers. He hears Dean chuckle, low, and he cringes, waiting for the snarky comment.

“Hey, Sammy.”

Of course. He’d stay silent, but Dean is relentless, so better to get it over with. “What?” he says flatly. 

“Betcha I can last longer than you.”

It takes him a second to take in what Dean says. When it hits him, he twists around to stare at his brother, and oh holy _fuck_.

Dean’s got his left leg propped up, the other one spread wide, and he’s stroking himself through his boxers - slowly, lazily, deliciously. He’s still looking at the screen.

“Wh-what?” Sam stammers, even though he heard perfectly, and he quails when Dean’s attention shifts to him, green eyes hazy and heavy-lidded. 

“I bet you,” Dean says slowly, hand still at work, “that you come before I do.”

Dean wants to have a jerk-off contest. What in the actual fuck.

Sam’s moving before he’s fully aware of it, flipping back onto his back and putting a hesitant hand on his dick, now fully hard and straining in his shorts. 

Dean looks back at the TV with a pleased hum and lifts his ass off the mattress to pull his boxers down. His dick springs free to bounce off his stomach, leaving a silvery smear of precome. Sam’s mouth goes dry. 

He follows suit, because that’s how things go, and soon they’re both at work. The friction is a bit much and Sam slows his hand. 

“No cheating, Sam.” Dean’s voice is husky and Sam feels like he’s about to combust, contest be damned. 

“I’m not,” he manages, and thank God his voice doesn’t squeak like he feels it might. “It’s just - ” He can’t say it, because jerking off next to his brother is one thing but talking about it is another entirely.

Dean looks over at him and he darts his eyes back to the screen, heat rising on his cheeks. Then Dean is moving, rolling over to the far side of the bed, and maybe he’s realized that this is weird and he wants to stop and now Sam’s going to have to slink into the bathroom to finish, far away from Dean’s sickened eyes.

“Here.” Dean’s voice is close, too close, and Sam yelps in shock because Dean is right there, standing over him with a bottle of lotion in his hand. Sam studiously avoids looking anywhere and holds out his hand, receives a blob of cool Lubriderm. 

Then Dean is gone. The bottle makes a fart noise as he squeezes out his own glob, and they both snicker because they’re teenage boys. The bed springs squeak as Dean settles again, and Sam can see his arm start to move again from the corner of his eye, so he slips his gooey hand around himself too.

“Better?” Dean asks, and Sam can’t help the quiver that passes over him - when did Dean’s voice start sounding like actual sex? His eyes drag from the screen and back to the catlike length of his brother stretched on the shitty motel bed, down to where Dean’s cockhead is peeking from the top of his fist as he slides his hand down and of course Dean’s dick is as perfect as the rest of him, the fucking asshole, can’t he have a single fucking flaw? 

Dean licks his lips, pink tongue flashing out, and Sam chokes and spasms and obviously he never had a chance, he’s fucking fourteen and a stiff breeze could make him come, but he’s still watching Dean even as he spurts all over himself and so he doesn’t really feel like he’s lost. 

He’s waiting for Dean’s laughter, waiting to be called Six Second Sammy or something dumb like that, but Dean just keeps going, thumb swiping across his leaking slit and fuck, if Sam hadn’t already blown his load that would have fucking sealed the deal. He sucks in a sharp breath at the sight anyways, an aftershock making him twitch, and holy shit, Dean’s biting his lip and erupting over his fist, one jet arcing up to land on his chest. 

The sound from the TV is intrusive now, louder than their heavy breathing, and Sam wants nothing more than to turn it off, shut it up. He rolls off the bed, hitching his boxers up, awkward and one-handed, and steals to the bathroom, wipes himself down with the towel Dean had used after his shower when they’d first gotten in. Should he bring it for Dean too? Is that weird?

He peeks around the doorframe, but Dean’s got a tissue in his hand, wiping the come off his chest and Sam has to duck back out of sight, his spent dick twitching.

When he emerges, Dean’s boxers are back on and Frosty the Snowman is melting on the screen. He slides under the covers, turns towards Dean so he doesn’t think he’s freaking out, even though he is a little bit. 

“Busy, busy, busy!” he echoes along with Hinkle, with the funny inflection, and Dean barks a laugh because he always does, is always tickled by that line for some reason, ever since Sam can remember, and just like that, everything is fine.

* * *

It’s not like it happens all the time. Sam wouldn’t even say it happens often. Just occasionally. Sometimes without a reason, sometimes with one. Most of the time Dean initiates, but not always. Sometimes Sam gets up his nerve. Like the first time he wins, for example.

The time Dad stopped for ammo at some backwater garage, one of his weird, never-ending number of odd contacts. The guy has an eyepatch and a sour demeanour, but he lost the eye in ‘Nam, which is good enough for Dad, and he’s also got a daughter around twenty, blonde and leggy in Daisy Duke cutoffs, which is good enough for Dean, especially when she takes one look at him and disappears with him around the back of the garage. 

Sam is sitting cross-legged on the hood of the car when Dad comes out, duffel bag in hand, and he’s not quick enough to slide down before Dad gives him a baleful eye. “Sam.” 

“Sorry, sir.” Sam’s sneakers hit the dirt as Dad goes on. 

“Where’s your brother?” 

Sam snorts. “Getting to know _Mandy_ ,” he says, and Dad quirks an eyebrow at his tone, but doesn’t say anything. Sam watches annoyance and pride in his eldest son at war on his father’s face and kicks bitterly at a tuft of grass. 

“Dean!” Dad hollers, and Sam looks expectantly at the corner Dean had disappeared around, but he doesn’t appear. Dad grunts, draws a breath. “DEAN!”

That’s his soldier voice and Sam snickers to himself as Dean slinks into view a few seconds later, walking a bit funny, Mandy tripping along behind him, a livid red mark on the side of her neck and her top button undone. She takes one look at Dad and beelines into the house next to the garage. 

Dean’s face is a mix of shame and frustration, his cheeks and the tips of his ears bright pink. Sam thinks about teasing him, but decides against it. He climbs into the backseat instead.

“Twice I gotta call you, Dean, really?” Dad gripes, dumping the duffel in the trunk and heading around to the driver’s side. “For a quick fumble behind a garage?” 

“Sorry, sir.” Dean’s reply is the same as Sam’s, toneless and quick. He gets into the passenger seat. 

Dad starts the car. “Was she good, at least?”

Dean doesn’t say anything, just tugs at the crotch of his jeans, and Sam’s heart does a kickflip. Dad just laughs, annoyance evaporating as quickly as it arrived. 

He drops them at the motel in town, gets them settled and drives away with his new ammo. 

Dean’s still walking a bit funny, tugging at his jeans as they go through the safety precautions, and by the time the last salt line is down, Sam’s feeling reckless. “Dean.”

“What?” Dean’s voice is tight, like he can’t wait to escape into the bathroom, and it just spurs Sam on. 

“Betcha.”

Dean’s eyes narrow dangerously and Sam nearly takes it back, nearly says “haha” and “just kidding”, but the can of salt in Dean’s hand hits the carpet, white grains spilling out, and he’s unzipping his jeans right where he stands and shit, shit, Sam might have pushed it too far, but fuck if it isn’t pushing all his buttons, so he does the same.

“Fuck.” Dean’s voice cracks low, tight with need as he gets a hand around himself. He’s looking Sam right in the eyes, blown-out pupils holding steady. 

Sam’s seriously starting to doubt his chances of winning this. He had it, it was all in the bag - too bad he forgot that watching Dean jerk off is literally the hottest thing he’s ever seen. The whole thing feels so much dirtier than any time before, for some reason. 

Dean throws his arm out, steadying himself against the wall as he curls into himself slightly and then he shoots over himself, splashing up with enough force to hit the underside of his chin. He makes a broken noise, like it’s both the most painful and most relieving feeling he’s ever felt. 

Sam is exactly three strokes behind, but he gasps out a shaky, triumphant laugh as he soaks his hand. Dean’s face is dripping with his own come three feet from him and he’s _still_ managed to win. “I got you,” he pants, grinning at his brother. “I got you.” 

Dean’s face has lost the sharp edge of need, softening into a grin that looks just a little bit proud. “Yeah, Sammy, good job. You got me.” His dick’s still out, still half hard, as he walks toward Sam and reaches out to ruffle his hair - with his come-covered hand.

And then, of course, it’s all shrieking and running to the bathroom, Dean’s laughter loud and bright in his ears, but somehow washing Dean’s spunk out of his hair doesn’t seem like the worst thing in the world.

* * *

The game stays the same, until one day it doesn’t.

They’ve got a house for once - a shitty, rundown bungalow in a shitty part of the shitty town, but it’s better than a motel. No weird stains or awkward sex noises from the next room over, just splintery hardwood floors and a dog that barks late into the night. 

Sam get home from school and opens the door to a smell he’s only ever encountered beneath the bleachers or behind the gym. He sniffs his way into the master bedroom, which they’d left untouched like Dad was going to show up and use it, to find Dean sprawled on the bare mattress wearing boxers, headphones, and a dopey grin. 

He shoves at Dean’s foot, waits until Smokey the Drug Bear tugs his headphones aside. “You smell like a DARE warning.” 

Dean giggles. “Guess who smoked me up.” 

“Liar, we didn’t have an assembly today.” 

It’s really not even close to funny, but Dean’s laughing anyways and Sam can’t help but grin along. “Idiot.” 

“Saaaaammy,” Dean drags his name out, pawing at his pockets. His clumsy hands slide over Sam’s crotch and he twitches away.

“What do you want, you molester?” 

Dean snickers. “Mole...molmester. Haha. Do you have any snacks?” 

“There’s snacks in the kitchen, moron.” 

“Too far,” Dean whines. He yanks at Sam again. “C’mere.”

Sam rolls his eyes, but allows himself to be dragged onto the mattress. “I have homework, Dean.” 

Dean crosses his eyes. It’s not very effective, as he can barely keep them open. “Sam.”

“God, what?”

“Betcha.” 

The word triggers a Pavlovian response in Sam now, after all this time; goes right to his dick like a shot. He’s got a decent chance of winning, he figures, with Dean the way he is. “Okay. You’re on.” 

“Hah,” Dean stabs a finger at his ribs. “Gonna lose. I’m...I’m enhanced. Like steroids.” 

“That is not how weed works, but okay, you keep thinking that.” He shimmies out of his jeans and boxers. “Shit, where’s the lotion?”

Dean just shrugs, because of course he’s extra useless, so Sam goes in search of the Lubriderm, finds it in the bathroom. When he gets back to the room, Dean’s naked. 

Sam climbs back onto the bed, leaves an appropriate amount of space between them on the bed - although he’s not entirely sure what constitutes an appropriate amount of space when it comes to whacking off next to your brother. “Here.” He offers up the lotion and Dean flings out a hand without looking - he’s staring at the water stain on the ceiling like it’s telling him the secrets of the universe. Sam rolls his eyes, squirts a blob of lotion into the outstretched hand and then his own, twisting around to set the bottle on the floor.

When he rolls back, he’s suddenly aware of Dean right next to him, breath warm on Sam’s face, all the space evaporated - and then Dean’s lotioned hand is on Sam’s dick instead of his own. All the oxygen in the room seems to have evaporated too.

“D-dean?”

Dean doesn’t answer, just reaches out with his other hand to tug Sam towards his crotch, and Sam curls his fingers around his brother’s cock like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The feeling of someone else’s - _Dean’s_ \- hand on him is unreal. Dean’s hand is so _big_ , fingers thick and strong. Sam has half a second to worry about how small his dick must seem to Dean, in comparison with his own, but then Dean glides his hand up to the crown, circles his thumb around the slit and Sam can’t worry about anything at all except holy fucking _shit_.

He barely has enough presence of mind to play his part in the game, so Dean bucks his hips a little and Sam feels like his brain has blown a fuse, but his hand gets the message and starts to work along Dean’s length. 

He can feel Dean’s eyes on him, but he doesn’t dare look up or he’ll blow right then and there. He focuses on Dean’s dick instead, which isn’t much safer - the pretty pink of the head, the vein on the underside, the silken-steel feel of it under his fingers. As he watches, precome beads at the slit and then spills over, leaking down to mingle with the slick of the lotion. Sam’s mouth starts to water. 

“Sam, Sammy,” Dean whispers, his voice raspy. He leans in until their heads are touching and rubs them together. “Saaaammy.” 

They never talk while they do this. Dean’s changing the game and it should feel like cheating since he doesn’t seem to be sharing the rules, but his thumb has just run along Sam’s balls and Sam doesn’t really feel cheated, even when he explodes at the touch, creaming up the breath of space between them, losing all sense of anything beyond the feeling of Dean’s hand on him.

When he regains brain function, Dean is watching him with huge eyes. He doesn’t say anything, so Sam doesn’t either - he just wills himself to move, feeling like he’s swimming through molasses, fingers flexing around Dean’s cock because he’s lost, but they always go all the way to the finish line, even if the game has changed. 

He slides his hand down and then up and Dean full-on whimpers, collapsing onto his back. His body starts a rhythm and Sam adjusts to it, mesmerized by the churn of his brother’s hips, the stretch and flex of lean muscle under all that creamy pale-gold skin. He reaches out with his other hand to mimic Dean’s earlier move, stroking his knuckles along the soft rise of Dean’s balls and it has the exact same effect it had on him. Dean seizes up under him, a continuous whine issuing from behind his slack lips as he comes, flowing over Sam’s hand. 

By the time Sam finds the courage to look up at Dean’s face, his eyes are already closed, a softer version of his stupid grin still playing on his lips.

They never talk about it, but the game stays changed.

* * *

The first time they don’t play, it’s because Sam says no.

Another monster hunt, another week with Dad gone who knows where, another crappy motel. This one’s got a bar just down the road. 

Dean spends a lot of time there. He’s sour and surly; he’d begged Dad to let him come on the trip. “Sam’s fine, he’s a better shot than I was at his age and smarter than both of us combined. He doesn’t need a babysitter!”

Sam is torn; he’s glowing with Dean’s praise and Dean’s right, he doesn’t need a babysitter, but he also doesn’t want Dean to go away. He’s never slept without Dean within arm’s reach, not once - the one time he’d tried to sleep at a friend’s house, he’d called Dean at midnight, huddled in a strange kitchen in a strange house, and Dean had walked five miles in the dark to come get him. Even when they had a house with two bedrooms, they always shared one. Always. 

“I don’t need a babysitter either, Dean,” Dad grumps back, and Dean bristles. 

“I could _help_ you, Dad, jeez. Why’d you put us through all this training if you never let us use it?”

A mistake, it’s a mistake, and they all know it, even Sam: even though he’s cheering Dean on internally. He’s got a _point_ , after all. But point or not, Dad’s word is law and Dean’s never the one to challenge it. 

The air in the room is charged with tension. Sam holds his breath as Dad steps into Dean’s space. Dean is big and strong, a grown man, but he looks soft and small next to Dad when he’s like this. 

“I hope you’re not going to make me repeat myself.”

There’s another minute of silence and Sam’s getting dizzy, but Dean drops his eyes, shows his belly. “No, sir.” 

Sam blows out explosively. 

“Good.” Dad is stomping around, gathering bag and keys and gun. “I’ll be back in a week. Ten days, tops.” 

Then he’s gone, but the storm clouds don’t go with him. Sam hesitates, reaches a tentative hand out, puts it on Dean’s shoulder. There’s a faint quiver through his brother’s frame, but he shakes Sam’s hand off. “Don’t, Sam.” 

Dean goes to the bathroom, comes out half an hour later with a set to his jaw Sam only sees in battle. If Dean had cried, there’s no sign of it on his shuttered face. “Going out.”

He’s shouldering his way into his jacket, doesn’t stop until his hand is on the door and Sam dares. “Dean, just - we can order a pizza or something. Please.”

He can see Dean’s fingers tighten on the knob, knuckles white. For a sweet, hopeful second, Sam thinks he’s convinced him. But - 

“Don’t wait up.” Then he’s gone into the dark and the rain, and Sam’s alone.

He does wait up, half in defiance and half because he doesn't see the point. He won't sleep with Dean gone anyways. He puts his pajamas on, brushes his teeth, gets into bed with the TV on, and waits. 

It’s just after two in the morning when Sam hears noises at the door. It’s Dean, he knows it, but his hand tightens on the grip of the gun under his pillow just in case.

Dean’s struggling to work the key, it sounds like, but Sam stays where he is, waits until the door swings open, blowing a gust of wind and rain into the room. Dean’s stumbling, having just as much trouble getting the key out of the lock as he’d had getting it in. Finally he manages it, slamming the door closed. 

It’s dark, but Sam left the curtains open and the light coming in through the window is enough to pick out Dean’s features. He clatters around, dropping the key and his jacket onto the floor. Tries to kick his boots off but just sways dangerously, falls onto the bed where Sam’s curled under the blankets, feeling almost terrified. 

Dean pats around until he makes contact with Sam’s foot through the covers. “Sammy,” he drunk-whispers - not nearly as quiet as he thinks he is - sending a whisky and cigarette smell through the air.

Sam doesn’t say anything, but he wriggles his toes. Dean grunts. “Tol’ you not t’ wait up.”

“You would have woken me up anyways, you elephant.” It’s a wasted effort, in the state Dean is in, but he makes it anyways, just to make things feel more normal. “Beauty and grace.”

Dean doesn’t respond; instead, he hauls himself up the mattress, cold hand on Sam’s uncovered arm. He stinks, but Sam’s happy enough to have him here that he doesn’t push him away.

Until Dean drags the covers down with one hand, fumbles at his fly with the other. “S’mmy. Besha.” Sam sees his face crinkle, sees him try again. “Betcha, Sammy.” 

He’s pawing none too gently at Sam’s crotch and yeah, okay, Sam’s hard: it’s pretty much out of his control. But this...he doesn’t want Dean like this, doesn’t want Dean to want him when he’s like this. High is one thing - piss-drunk and mad at Dad is another. That’s not how the game is played. 

He twists out of Dean’s reach. “No, Dean. Not like - you’re drunk, man. I don’t - I don’t want to.” 

He’s not sure what to expect: anger, cruelty, bitterness. He’s never turned Dean away before. He’s half-bracing for something: a heavy hand on his dick, maybe even a blow. Dean’s never hit him before either. But what if the game has changed them? 

Dean just nods, shifts until he’s just got his face pressed into Sam’s neck, hands respectfully pulled away. “You’re righ’, Sammy. So smart. Always so smart.” He noses in, huffs a sigh, breath warm and wet against Sam’s clavicle. “Sorry, Sammy.” 

He’s out like a light then, leaving Sam feeling like shit for thinking the worst of his brother. 

Dean is pale and delicate in the morning. Sam doubts if he remembers any of it. 

They didn’t play, so nobody won or lost, but Sam still feels like the game has changed somehow. 

* * *

But the game stays the same, until it doesn’t.

Sam opens the bathroom door, releasing a cloud of steam into the motel room. Towel knotted firmly around his waist, he steps out to find Dean naked on the bed. 

The sight is familiar by now, but it never fails to take Sam’s breath away.

There’s no rhyme or reason for Dean to want to play. Sometimes this is just how it is. Sam stops where he is, waits for it. 

Dean’s grinning at him, dick hard and glistening between his legs. “Betcha, Sammy.”

Sam’s _just_ rubbed one out in the shower not ten minutes ago, so he’s feeling pretty confident. “Let’s go.” He lets the towel fall to the floor. 

Dean makes room for him on the bed. Sam rolls onto his side, assuming the position. “Get the lotion?”

Dean rolls over, reaching for his bag on the floor next to the bed. Sam lays flat, hand outstretched, and waits for the cool sensation of the lotion. 

It never comes.

Instead, Sam finds himself with Dean _on top of him_ , knees on either side of Sam’s hips, raised up so they aren’t actually touching. Something is in one clenched fist, but it’s not the Lubriderm. Dean’s face has a look that Sam can’t pin down: part trepidation, part determination, all desire.

Sam blinks up at him. “Dean?”

In answer, Dean opens his hand to reveal a little bottle of lube. Sam has a few seconds to appreciate the upgrade - lotion does the job, but it’s not ideal - before Dean’s slick hand is reaching down. 

“You - you forgot me, stupid,” Sam breathes, but Dean just sinks down so his weight is on Sam’s thighs - gently, not all of it - and pushes his hips forward until his big, broad hand has gathered up both their dicks: together.

Dean’s fingers glide, smooth as silk - so much better than the stupid Lubriderm - over both their lengths, letting them slide together and Sam _loses his fucking mind_.

“Oh, _fuck_ , Dean.” He bucks his hips up wildly, all thoughts of winning the game turned to vapour, the only need in his existence the feeling of Dean’s hard cock moving against his own. “Dean, _Dean_.”

Dean shushes him gently, hand slipping along their bodies, his own hips urging a slow rhythm that Sam can’t quite match in his frenzy. “Easy, baby,” Dean mutters, free hand stretching out to thumb along Sam’s lower lip. 

The pet name goes straight to Sam’s balls and it’s almost painful, all the sensations overwhelming him. He grinds up against Dean, seeking more, and Dean doesn’t push back, but his hand picks up speed. 

The heads of their cocks rub together and Sam sees stars, feels the orgasm blow through him from deep in the warmth in his gut. He gushes over their nestled-close dicks, tight in the clutch of Dean’s hand, and Dean chokes out a sound that Sam wants on a CD so he can play it over and over again forever as he follows, adding to the mess covering them. He keeps pumping his hips with each blurt and Sam is whimpering, overstimulated. Dean slumps down onto him, still aware enough not to crush Sam beneath him. Sam feels his dick twitch against his one last time. 

Their breathing has wound down by the time Sam feels brave enough to speak. “I think you won that one.” 

Dean chuckles against his throat. “You feelin’ like you lost, Sammy?”

Sam raises a hand, brave, lets it rub over the close-cropped hair at the back of Dean’s head where it feels like velvet. “Maybe a little.” 

Dean has a wicked look in his eyes. “Double or nothing?”

Sam reaches down to where they’re wet and sticky, still pressed together. Dean sucks in a sharp breath at the touch. 

“You’re on.” Sam says. 


End file.
